


Breaking Bratton

by Dtour5150



Category: Better Call Saul, Breaking Bad, The Office - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Breaking Bad, Alternate Universe - The Office Fusion, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 00:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10933557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dtour5150/pseuds/Dtour5150
Summary: Lifelong criminal Creed Bratton's quiet Scranton life is broken by a sudden arrest after the premier of a documentary on public television depicting the inner workings of the paper company in which he has been working, unassuming for the last several years. He is reunited with old partner-in-crime and laywer Saul Goodman, who until now has also been in hiding in Philidelphia, working for a real estate company under the assumed name Mark.





	Breaking Bratton

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress, and is subject to editing. Thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> *I do not own any of the characters unless they are OC's*
> 
> *Some characters, timelines, and situations may be altered from the original universe canon.*

 

  He didn’t struggle as he was led out of the office in handcuffs.

     “Okay, let’s go then. Get this over with.”

     “Yeah, come on, sir. You should know the drill by now. Been lookin’ for you a looong time.”

The taller officer clapped him on the shoulder, while the other kept a firm grip on the old man’s upper arm, both leading him across the parking lot to the waiting squad car, blue and red lights reflecting crazily off the black pavement and white, square building behind them. Creed didn’t bother struggling against it. This was a long time coming, admittedly.

     “Mind your head now.”

     “Yep.”  
      They guided him in to the back of the squad car, almost gently, a pair of hands steadying him at the hips, one on the middle of his back, one on top of his head. He may have been a wanted man, but he felt like the coppers were taking pity on him because of his age. He shifted around the seat, finding the sweet spot where he’d be most comfortable on the ride back to jail, not reacting at all when the two officers climbed in the front after him and slammed the doors closed. He looked out the window, meeting the eyes of his surprised and excited coworkers, whom he had spent a considerable amount of time with, though felt like he knew very little of, and they very little of him, especially considering they had no idea that he was wanted, or what he was even wanted for. This is how he had wanted it, though. He was supposed to be in hiding, in a way, living a quiet life, avoiding the fuzz, though that all went to hell as soon as that damned documentary aired and his cover was blown.

     He nodded at the heads bobbing in the glass floor-to-ceiling windows that fronted the building that housed Dunder Mifflin, meeting each one of his now-former coworker’s unfocused eyes, then realized that they couldn’t see him; the backs of these new-fangled squad cars are blacked out now. He shrugged to himself and turned facing forward as the taller officer started the car and pulled out on to the road.

     Creed leaned forward, nearly pressing his face against the screen that separated the compartments of the car.  “Either a’ you chaps got any granola bars or maybe a sucking candy?”  
     The driving officer snorted, the younger one answered for him. “Pipe down back there, old timer. We’ll be where we’re going soon enough.”

     Creed _hmmphed_ and leaned back in his seat, breathing easy, and for all that’s happened, was feeling pretty relaxed, even confident. “So, gonna introduce yerselves, or we going to sit here on this ride as perfect strangers?”

     The officers looked at each other, faces illuminated in striking contrast every time they passed under a street light. The smaller one shrugged. “S’pose it couldn’t hurt, being that we sure know a lot ‘bout you. I’m Officer Kirklan, this is my partner Dunlap.”

     Dunlap grunted in response, making a turn on to the freeway. “Been in the service for some 25-odd years, and ain’t never seen a rap sheet quite like yours, old timer. You have really done it all.”  
     Creed chuckled to himself. “You don’t know the half of it, Jack. That’s only the stuff I was caught doin’.”

      Kirklan huffed and shook his head, Dunlap only grunted. “You’re a real scumbag, you know that?”

     “Ain’t got no problem with that.” Creed shrugged to himself.

     Kirklan picked up the conversation, a genuinely amused note in his voice. “So, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done, then?”

     Creed shook his head as the younger officer eyed him in the rearview. “You wouldn’t be able to handle hearing all the things I’ve been in, boy.”

     Kirklan pressed him. “Come on, we got you in custody. Not much more trouble you could really get in to at this point. I mean, we picked you up because you’re wanted by the government for stealing weapons-grade LSD for cryin’ out loud! From the military! I mean, shit! How you’ve managed to go under our radar for this long is beyond us, really.”

     Kirklan laughed, but was quieted promptly by a stern look from Dunlap. “Quiet, you. Makin’ us look bad. I swear I’ll have you transferred to traffic duty if you keep that up.” Kirklan was quiet, almost sullen the rest of the drive.

     Creed watched the exchange impassively, then stared out the window as they neared the state police headquarters. “Hey, I know my rights, Jack. Ain’t sayin’ no more ‘til my laywer is wit me.” He mumbled it more to himself than the officers.

     Dunlap nodded in approval. “That’s right, old timer. Clam up. Smartest choice you’ve made in your whole damn crooked life, I expect.” They rounded the corner into the state police headquarters, parked, collected Creed out of the back seat, and began the booking process, which by this point was more routine than surprise to Creed. He went through it calmly, fully cooperating, submitting prints for the umpteenth time in his life, taking mugshots, and making his one phone call to someone named Mark in Philly. He refused to answer any questions or give any further information to detectives questioning him until his lawyer was present, so they had to lead him to a cell. Nestled in to his holding cell, he laid down on the hard cot, hands under his head, the familiar smell of burnt coffee, stale sweat, urine, and shame surrounding him. He expected he wouldn’t be here long.

 

 

 

 

*                                                    *                                               *                                               *

 

 

He was woken abruptly by a rap on his cell door. “Up and up, old man. You got a visitor.”

     He stirred slowly, old bones creaking with age and arthritis as he sat up and stretched. That’ll be Mark, he expected, or whatever name he’s been going by lately. The cop outside waited patiently for him to rouse, and only opened the cell when he heard the tinny metal toilet flush inside. He was cuffed, hands only, and led by a giant meaty hand on his arm to an interrogation room, where they were greeted by the long, grinning face of the mysterious Mark.

     “Hey there, buddy! How goes it? They treating you alright in here? Let’s get down to it then.” He gestured to the plain metal table in the middle of the room, flanked only by 2 matching, old-looking metal chairs, and Mark’s briefcase, which looked somehow shabbier than the suit he was wearing. He shook the cop’s hand and slipped him a business card as he closed the door behind him.

     “Hi. How ya doin’? Saul Goodman. Damn glad to meet ya. You guys are the real heroes out there, I swear it!” He clapped the officer on the shoulder as he turned, who looked less than pleased to be accosted by the greasy, balding man. Finally alone, his face turned suddenly from jovial to serious as he sat down opposite Creed. Creed sat back in his seat and regarded “Mark” appraisingly.

     “Saul, is it now?” he asked without inflection.

     Saul chewed on his lip a moment as he organized papers. “Hey man, you think I like coming out of retirement, putting myself in danger to come bail your crotchety ass out of jail? Again? Come on, you should’ve known better, showing your face for those camera guys at your job, if you could call it that. And then having it broadcast all over the country and the world? In a documentary? _About a paper company?_ I mean, are you serious, man? Pah-leez!”

     He shuffled more papers around, got out a pen, and folded his hands together on top of the pile in front of him, waiting, but for what, Creed had no idea.

     “Hey, Jack, Your only job is to do the laywerin’. That’s all I know. Get me out of this hole, you know it’ll be worth your while.”  
     Saul was having none of it. “Hey, if I had a dime for every time I had to pick up and relocate for your sorry ass, I’d be sippin’ a mojito on the pristine beaches of Bali right now, not a damn care in the world! But unfortunately that’s not reality, man. Reality is, you’re up a creek with this one. Feds have been after you on this one for some time. Small wonder they caught you, with all the publicity that damn doc has been getting. Why didn’t you change your name again? I did! Hell, I was actually happy for once, doing my manager thing up in Philly! It was a great gig! But nope, old man LSD-stealing, ex-Grassroots member wanted for just about everything old fuck Creed had to go and mess that up for me too! We’re in this together, man. I’ve only got your best interests in mind, which also happen to be mine, so if we could save the horsehockey for later, and focus on bailing you out and starting anew, that’d be great. Now, can we begin?”

     Finally out of breath, Creed let him sit there a moment before nodding quietly. “Whatever you need to do, Jack.”

     Saul threw his hands up. “Great! Perfect! Wonderful! Now, way I see it, you’re getting a trial, one way or the other. But, think I can get around you going to jail, being that you’re older than Moses, and there’s probably something in there I can work around with some kind of statue of limitations for this. That’s probably going to be our best angle. It’s also pretty doubtful that the feds are going to send a near 90-year-old man to jail. I mean, heck, you could drop dead any minute, you might not even be considered competent enough to stand trial, if we have to get you evaluated. I mean, you could be senile for all the court knows.”

     Creed just nodded along. “Do what you gotta do. Get me out, then you’re comin’ with me, startin’ anew again. Sounds like I’m going to need some serious bread after this.”

     Saul licked his thin lips and sat back in his creaky metal chair. “Now, we can discuss the cost of my services later. If they do decide to let you walk, they’ll probably end up fining you. We’ll have to talk about that too, but I know you’ll be good for it, you’ll find it somewhere, so, our main concern is just getting you out.”

     Creed nodded again. “Sounds like a plan.”

     Saul rolled his eyes. “Great. I’ll take my leave now. See you in court.” He knocked on the door, and the same burly officer let him out, then went in to collect Creed and take him back to his cell. Why should he be worried at all? He is an old man. They’ll see that. They’ll underestimate him, but hey, that’ll only work in his favor. Once back in his cell, he laid back down on the stiff molded plastic cot again, and hummed tunelessly to himself.

       


 

 

 

 


End file.
